Harvest
by Moril known before as Delyon
Summary: A sequel to Reaper Man. Death resigns.
1. Default Chapter

Harvest

A Discworld fanfic

DISCLAIMER: I own none of these characters or places. They all belong to Terry Pratchett. Happy, lawyers?

A/N: This is a sort of sequel to _Reaper Man. I know that other authoritative "Death" books have come since then, but it never hurts to speculate…_

            Death sighed.

            HERE IS ANOTHER DAY AT THE OFFICE. I ASSUME THAT WAS THE CORRECT TERM, ALBERT?

            "Yes, sir."

            I MUST AID THE PASSAGE OF MANY SOULS INTO THE NEXT WORLD. HOW DULL…

            "Sir, if I may be so bold, there are some who would give their right arms to have a job like yours," said Albert.

            AH. GOTHS, said Death, who apparently knew enough about humanity to know that there were indeed people who went in for dying their hair black with green streaks, wearing black shirts with rather nasty-looking Jolly Rogers emblazoned upon them, strange black pants, and black nail polish.[1]

            THEY FIRED ME. OR RATHER, THEY SPEEDED MY RETIREMENT. WHY AM I STILL HERE, ALBERT? WHY HAVE I NOT REMAINED THAT BEING WHICH I WAS, IF ONLY FOR A SHORT TIME?

            Albert remained silent. It was good to allow the Master a bit of introspection now and then, otherwise all hell might break loose… people could stop dying, or someone else could end up with the Duty… but it was also good to stop his thoughts before they went too far. Death was not exactly in the right line of work to speculate about his job, as Albert remembered someone saying.

            _Such speculation is dangerous…_

            A plain, and outlined in the sky the face of Azrael. Grey figures, conversing without speaking…

            ALBERT, THERE IS NOTHING FOR ME IN THIS. HOW CAN I CONTINUE FOR ETERNITY EASING SPIRITS INTO… WHATEVER COMES NEXT?

            "Sir, you can't _do_ anything else. You've tried. You've tried forgetting, you've tried almost _becoming a human - and it's not worked, sir."_

            I HAVE BEEN REMOVED FROM THE DUTY BEFORE ALBERT. I WILL DO IT AGAIN. I WILL SPEAK WITH THE AUDITORS, AND I WILL RESIGN.

  


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[1] Nail polish was a relatively new fashion on the Discworld. It was invented by Maria Flannery, a woman who was incredibly upset about her rejection from Unseen University. Upon attempting to create a poison to murder Archchancellor Ridcully, all she managed to do was to create a new feminine fad. Of course, poison and fad are sometimes synonymous.


	2. Chapter 2

Harvest

Continued…

A/N: The quote "LORD… REAPER MAN" comes from the book _Reaper Man._ I didn't come up with it.

            I HAVE THOUGHT AND THOUGHT ABOUT THIS ISSUE, said Death. AS MY SERVANT ALBERT EXPLAINED TO ME, I AM INCAPABLE OF BECOMING A HUMAN OR OF FORGETTING THE SOULS I TOOK BELONGING TO THOSE DEAR TO ME. I AM INCAPABLE OF TAKING ON THE RESPONSIBILITIES OF ANOTHER ANTHROPOMORPHIC PERSONIFICATION. NOW I AM RESIGNING.

            We cannot give this to you so easily, said one Auditor.

            Another said, We found before that you are needed. You cannot resign from this service.

            One said, You have a certain quality that we are unable to duplicate in a facsimile or replacement.

            One said, We have adapted. You, apparently, have not. We have acknowledged that you are necessary. You must accept your responsibility.

            I DEMAND THAT YOU ACCEPT MY RESIGNATION.

            We cannot. We will have to consult Azrael.

            TAKE ME TO HIM.

            I will… oh blast!

            The Auditor burst into flames upon the utterance of the singular pronoun. Another one immediately took its place.[1]

            It said, We will.

            Azrael's face was the sky. It was not simply a constellation or an outline. It engulfed all, taking the heavens and bending them to its will. And Azrael, the Death of the Universe, awaited the humble Death of the Discworld.

            LORD, WHAT CAN THE HARVEST HOPE FOR, IF NOT FOR THE CARE OF THE REAPER MAN? that personification had asked Azrael once. Azrael had given the Death of the Discworld something. Now he wanted it taken away…

            Death approached.

            LORD AZRAEL, he said, GRANT ME THE ABILITY TO LEAVE. TRUE, I AM NEEDED. BUT SURELY A NEW DEATH CAN BE CREATED - ONE THAT IS NOT SO TERRIBLE AS HE WHO WAS CREATED BEFORE?

            Then Azrael said:

NO.

            And Death walked away. There was no negotiating with Azrael. Compared to Azrael, Death was but a paper doll, a child's drawing, a random belittling metaphor in some other metaphor of Eternity.

            The echo left the voice to its own world, to do its own Duty.

More coming soon!

  


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[1] The Auditors had a lack of individuality surpassed only by American middle-school students and corporate workers.


	3. REally Random Chatter by the Author and ...

A/N:  This whole chapter is really nonsense.  If you'd like to actually read the story, SKIP IT!

Note from Little Gavroche:  Thanks to my superior hacking skills I have managed to break into Moril's computer and alter his files!  MuWahahahahaaaaaaaa!!!  Or maybe he just typed this at my house…  BUT HE STOLE MY QUOTE!! sticks out tongue   Oh well.   Heheh… ^.~

Note from Moril: I don't know why I bother… On to the story!

Note from Little Gavroche;  It's Terry Pratchett's!!!  Not his!!!  MuWahahahahaaaaaa!!!

Note from Moril: Can we go on, please?

            ALBERT, THEY REJECTED ME.

Note from Little Gavroche: No no no!!!!  You're doing it all wrong!!!!   `-´  Grrrr…

Note from Moril: _Some_ authors actually like to have their stories contain _stories_ and not CHATTER!!!

Note from Little Gavroche:  Stupid boring people… wanders off muttering  ^^

 Note from Moril: All right, now that _she's gone, we can have Death and Albert and the Death of Rats and all those weird people back. At least I do not employ a ballistic approach to punctuation._

Note from Some Guy: Well, actually, _I think he uses to little. If he were to maybe use more than one exclamation point ever in his life, his stories would be more interesting._

Note from Moril: Shut up.

Note from Some Guy: Bugrit, bugrit, bugrit. Millennium hand and shrimp, I told 'em.  I told 'em he's a yellow gronk. But they wouldn't listen, bugrit, bugrem.

Note from Moril: All right, at least we have _some Terry Pratchett in here… Goodbye, Foul Ole Ron…_

Note from Little Gavroche:  We DO have some Terry Pratchett in here!!!  ^^  I will quote you – 

ALBERT, THEY REJECTED ME.

Ha!!!  See????  SEE??!!!?!?!!?!?!!!!?!?!?!?!???????!?!!!!?!?!      ^_____________^

Note from Moril: Well, I was trying to actually write a Discworld fic instead of a chatroom! See? One exclamation point! Grammatically correct!

Note from Some Guy: No. Use at least twenty. Like this!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Note from Little Gavroche:  The two chappies before this WERE a Discworld fic, with Discworld charas and everything!!!!!!!!!!!!!  Isn't that enough?????  oO

Note from Moril: All right, has my trusted friend Little Gavroche turned into a blaspheming ELFYBOPPER??!?!??!?!!?!?!!?!?!!!?!?

Little Gavroche;  smack  I RESENT THAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! `-´

Moril: HAHAHAHAAAAAAAA… Turn to dust before the holy light of Tolkien…

Little Gavroche;  chanting  LEG-O-LAS!!!!!! LEG-O-LAS!!!!!! LEG-O-LAS!!!!!! LEG-O-LAS!!!!!! LEG-O-LAS!!!!!! LEG-O-LAS!!!!!! LEG-O-LAS!!!!!! LEG-O-LAS!!!!!! LEG-O-LAS!!!!!! LEG-O-LAS!!!!!! LEG-O-LAS!!!!!! LEG-O-LAS!!!!!! LEG-O-LAS!!!!!! LEG-O-LAS!!!!!! LEG-O-LAS!!!!!! LEG-O-LAS!!!!!! LEG-O-LAS!!!!!! LEG-O-LAS!!!!!! LEG-O-LAS!!!!!! LEG-O-LAS!!!!!! LEG-O-LAS!!!!!!

OR-LI!!! OR-LI!!! OR-LI!!! OR-LI!!! OR-LI!!! OR-LI!!! OR-LI!!! OR-LI!!! OR-LI!!! OR-LI!!! OR-LI!!! OR-LI!!! OR-LI!!! OR-LI!!! OR-LI!!! OR-LI!!! OR-LI!!! OR-LI!!! OR-LI!!! OR-LI!!! OR-LI!!! OR-LI!!! OR-LI!!! OR-LI!!! OR-LI!!! OR-LI!!! OR-LI!!!

Moril takes out a large phaser rifle from Star Trek and blasts Little Gavroche in a burst of power from the conflicting but now unified sources of Pratchett, Tolkien and Roddenberry.

Little Gavroche turns into a Borg and assimilates Moril using power from the omnipotent Sailor Moon, Tamora Pierce, and Orlando Bloom.

Moril: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Little Gavroche:  No no no!!!!  It's like THIS!!!

Ahem…

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

See?   Like THAT!!!!!  ^^

Moril becomes Long John Silver.

Long John Silver: ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR! Matey, this is getting really random!

Little Gavroche:  What else is new, ye salty Fez?!?!???!!?!   AAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Now, on to the fanfic – for REAL this time…  Oh, btw, I'm not REALLY an elfybopper.  ^^;;;;;;  It's just a comedy routine.  Orlando Bloom is a gibbering narcissistic ninny!!!!  Muwahahahahaaaa!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Long John Silver becomes Moril

Moril: Thank you!

Moril and Little Gavroche take a bow and disappear. The scene becomes Death's study…


	4. Chapter 3 really!

Harvest

Chapter 3 - for real…

            ALBERT, THEY REJECTED ME.

            "Well, Master, I'm not surprised. After all, you're really supposed to do your job. You know what happened the last time you left."

            YES, I DO. AND THAT IS WHY I WILL TAKE PRECAUTIONS THIS TIME. ALBERT, YOU WILL AID ME IN THE CONSTRUCTION OF A NEW DEATH. I WILL NOT ALLOW SUSAN TO TAKE UP THE FAMILY JOB, AS IT WERE. NOR WILL I ALLOW THE DESCENDANT OF DEATH AND TIME. NEITHER OF THEM MUST BE ALLOWED TO TAKE MY POSITION. THEY WILL RUIN ALL I STAND FOR.

            "Master, if I may be so bold, then why don't you keep standing for it?"

            I HAVE NEVER FELT SO ALONE BEFORE. SUSAN WILL NOT STAY HERE. I KNOW HER NOW, AND I HAVE SEEN HER MANY TIMES. SHE HAS A HUSBAND, BUT NO PARENTS. HER OLD GRANDDAD MUST TAKE CARE OF HER.

            "She's a grown woman!"

            MARRIED TO A DESCENDANT OF ANOTHER PERSONIFICATION. THE SON OF TIME. AND THEY HAVE A CHILD! HE IS THE DESCENDANT OF DEATH AND TIME! EVEN I CANNOT FATHOM WHAT HE WILL DO. ALBERT, OBSERVE.

            Death waved a bony finger. An inanimate skeleton was assembled before him and his servant out of ethereal parts. Death walked to his study, took his scythe, and placed it in the grip of the inert figure.

            BY THE POWER GIVEN TO ME BY AZRAEL, DEATH OF THE UNIVERSE, I COMMAND YE TO TAKE UP THE PLACE OF THE REAPER OF LIFE!

            Death blinked.

            IT'S NOT WORKING, ALBERT.

            "Master, it doesn't quite look like you…"

            IT _SHOULD WORK. WHY DOES IT NOT? I HAVE BEEN GIVEN POWER. I HAVE BEEN GIVEN FORM. WHY CAN I NOT GIVE IT MYSELF?_

            "Master… maybe you should just stop and maybe stay with your job?"

            NO. ALBERT, YOU CONTINUALLY INSIST THAT I STAY. IT WILL NOT WORK. DEATH OR NOT, I MUST SEE MY GRANDDAUGHTER. AND MISS FLITWORTH. I MUST SEE MISS FLITWORTH. BILL DOOR WILL RETURN TO EARTH! SO WILL MR. SCRUB AND GRANDFATHER DEATH! THE INVISIBLE BEGGARS WILL BE A PART OF ME, AS WILL ALL OTHER ACQUAINTANCES I MADE IN THE WORLD. ALBERT, YOU WILL CARRY THE SCYTHE. THERE IS NOTHING FOR IT BUT THAT. YOU WILL CARRY THE SCYTHE, AND WILL BE GRANTED IMMORTALITY EVEN IN THE WORLD. IN THE EVENT THAT I RETURN, YOUR FORMER STATUS WILL BE RESUMED. ALBERT, I NAME YOU MY REPLACEMENT.

            Albert stepped back. He watched his simple suit being replaced by a black robe. The scythe rose into his hands. The inert skeleton vanished. Albert became the Death of the Discworld. A lifetimer with the name _Alberto Malich_ was now empty of sand. Another with the name _Death filled with grains, pouring from future to past. Bill Door walked into the world again._


End file.
